


Truth or Dare

by sebacielfantasies



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Betrayal, M/M, Reconciliation, bittersweet homra, middle school days, not sure what this is really, post betrayal, they're not even playing the game right honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 22:21:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6925855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebacielfantasies/pseuds/sebacielfantasies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saruhiko and Misaki play Truth or Dare through the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truth or Dare

“Fushimi, let’s play Truth or Dare.”

The voice comes from the seat behind his own, a little too loud and a little too excited for Saruhiko’s taste. With a sigh, he looks over his shoulder to see—Yata Misaki, was it?—grinning at him.

“Shh,” he hisses back, less than amused, “do you want the teacher to hear you?” His eyes cut to the teacher in the front of the classroom, her blue marker zigzagging across the board.

“She can’t hear us,” Yata snorts. “She probably can’t even hear herself talking, with hearing that bad. But I didn’t think you were the type to care about things like that, Fushimi.”

The familiar way Yata is talking to him, as if he were a friend he’s known all his life, makes him unbelievably uncomfortable. Shoulders stiff, he turns back toward the front of the class. “Don’t pretend as if you know me, it’s annoying. And I just rather not end up in detention with someone like you.”

Yata makes an offended noise, not unheard by the rest of the class, and leans closer to Saruhiko’s ear, “Eh? What’s that supposed to mean?!”

He doesn’t answer, too consumed with Yata’s overwhelming body heat—it feels like waves of pure  _ hot _ , pouring off him like a sheen of sweat. In his ear, Yata insists, “Play Truth or Dare with me, Fushimi.”

“No,” he says. “Not happening.”

He hopes that his harsh words will end the issue, push the boy away so that he’ll leave Saruhiko alone and never come back. That’s all Saruhiko asks for, really; to be left alone in his own world, undisturbed and untouchable.

But Yata Misaki, he finds, is like a leech: once he’s latched on, there’s absolutely no shaking him off.

 

**~**

  
  


They’re sprawled out on the grass behind the school building, waiting to be put into the soccer game for gym class, when Yata turns to him with a look in his eyes that Saruhiko knows can only mean one thing.

“Fushimi,” he whines, “pleeeeease play Truth or Dare with me? Pleease?”

It’s the thousandth time Yata’s made this request (that’s what it feels like, at least) and Saruhiko’s beyond irritated with it.

“No,” he says, for the thousandth time, “for the last time, no. How many times do I have to tell you for your few brain cells to understand?”

Yata’s eyes flash amber. “I’m not the only one who’s being stubborn here, y’know!”

Saruhiko doesn’t bother answering this, sick of the conversation as he was; his gaze flicks lazily back to the game—their team is winning, he’s pretty sure—and he sighs.

“Why do you want to play it so badly, anyway?” It’s something he's been wondering a while now, so he can’t help the slip of his tongue. He looks at Yata from the corners of his eyes. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” says Yata, “it’s fun! Haven’t you ever played Truth or Dare before?” Saruhiko is silent, save for a click of his tongue, and Yata shakes his head. “Seriously? Not even once?”

He frowns, irritated at the pitiful way Yata’s looking at him. “No.”

“Then you  _ have  _ to now!” Yata leaps to his feet, voice rising along with him. He thrusts his hands on his hips, his gaze one of uncontainable excitement. “C’mon, I’ll even let you go first. And we can skip all the 'Truth or Dare' crap the first time around, just give me a dare and I’ll—”

“. . . dare you to score a point in the wrong goal.”

“And I’ll—W-Wait, what?”

“Score a point,” Saruhiko repeats, nodding in the direction of the soccer field, “in the wrong goal. That's my dare. Unless you’re too scared to, that is.”

To Saruhiko’s experience, everything in life is fleeting, fragile, delicate. If someone presses even the tiniest bit on something, it’ll break. So Saruhiko presses on the boy’s words, and he waits.

Yata’s clearly offended. “Y-You wanna bet?! I’m not scared! I’ll do the stupid dare, alright!” He turns, cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “Hey, Coach! Can I go in now?”

Across the field, the coach nods his consent; Yata gives Saruhiko one last angry scowl, “Can’t believe you’re makin’ me do this, Fushimi,” before striding off onto the field. Unconsciously, Saruhiko leans forward, eyes snagged on his retreating figure.

Once Yata’s in position, the whistle blows its piercing sound into the air, and the game begins. Students in blue and red jerseys come to life, moving around the ball like planets orbiting the sun. The ball is kicked, flown, and catapulted in the air.

It takes a moment for him to find the blur of red that is Yata—he’s on the red team, like Saruhiko—but when he does, he feels his eyes widen. Yata’s reached the ball. His feet maneuver it almost seamlessly through the sea of blue and red, but—

But he’s aiming for the wrong goal, the goal his opponents should be aiming for, and Saruhiko really wasn't expecting this at all.

One well-aimed kick and the ball sails past the goalie, bounces into the goal—and chaos erupts, a mix of “Oi, Yata, what do you think you’re  _ doing _ , that’s the  _ wrong goal _ ,” and “Aw, nice, the idiot scored for us!” but Saruhiko’s not listening to any of that. All he can focus on is Yata, standing beside the goal, his face redder than his jersey.

But then he looks up, offers Saruhiko a small  _ told-you-so _ kind of smile, and it takes effort not to smile back.

  
  


**~**

  
  


Skipping class is nothing new for Saruhiko. He’s hidden out in these bathroom stalls more times than he can count, when school grew too boring for him to stomach. What is new, though, is that Yata's seated on the other half of the toilet seat.

“Truth or Dare?”

Visibly uncomfortable, Saruhiko shifts on his half of the toilet seat, mutters, “. . . Truth.”

He’s too close, Saruhiko thinks, way too close. Meanwhile, Yata doesn’t seem to even notice the way their shoulders touch, or maybe he doesn't even care.

“Okay, I got a good one. When are you going to let me call you by your first name?”

He’s not expecting this, but he makes sure his face doesn’t show it. “Does it really matter what you call me by?”

“Of course it does! We’re friends, aren’t we? So I should be able to call you by your first name, yeah?”

Saruhiko sighs. “If you really want to, fine. I don’t care.”

“Really?” The glee in Yata's voice is loud, too loud. It bounces off the bathroom walls, echoes in Saruhiko's ears and stays there, a token of what happiness sounds like. He pumps a fist in the air, “Thanks, Fush—I mean, thanks . . . Saruhiko.”

Saruhiko’s never liked his name, not really, didn’t like how he got it or who gave it to him. But, while watching Yata’s mouth curve to form the syllables in that upbeat tone of his, he decides that maybe his name's not all that bad.

“Whatever,” he says, but, thinking better of it, he adds, “Misaki.”

“Oi!” Yata—no, Misaki—says, whirling on him, “I didn’t say you could use mine, Saruhiko!”

“But Misaki,” he clicks his tongue, enjoying the ever so frustrated look on the boy's face, “it’s only fair.”

Misaki punches him in the arm, threatens to beat him up if he says his given name again, but Saruhiko isn’t all that concerned.

_ Misaki, Misaki, Misaki . . . Your name isn’t all that bad either. _

  
  


**~**

  
  


**_4: 56 (20 minutes ago)_ **

**_1 New Email From <_ ** **_yata.misaki@ezweb.ne.jb_ ** **_>_ **

  
  


_ < _ _ yata.misaki@ezweb.ne.jb _ _ > _ Saruuuuuuuu are you there? i’m bored. Like reaaaallyy bored

_ < _ _ fushimi.saruhiko@docomo.ne.jp _ _ >  .. _ And how is that my problem?

_ < _ _ yata.misaki@ezweb.ne.jb _ _ > _ come over.

_ < _ _ fushimi.saruhiko@docomo.ne.jp _ _ > _ Not right now, I’m busy.

_ < _ _ yata.misaki@ezweb.ne.jb _ _ > _ whats more imprtant than my boredom tho??? cmon saruuuu what about that game u wanted to play at my house????

_ < _ _ yata.misaki@ezweb.ne.jb _ _ > _ if i make it a dare will you come over

_ < _ _ yata.misaki@ezweb.ne.jb _ _ > _ please saru?

_ < _ _ fushimi.saruhiko@docomo.ne.jp _ _ > _ You didn’t even ask me truth or dare stupid. What if I wanted to do truth?

_ < _ _ fushimi.saruhiko@docomo.ne.jp _ _ > _ ...but fine.

_ < _ _ yata.misaki@ezweb.ne.jb _ _ >   _ really?? yes!!! haha i knew you wouldnt chicken out of a dare!!!!

_ < _ _ fushimi.saruhiko@docomo.ne.jp _ _ > ... _ that’s not why I’m coming. Idiot

_ < _ _ yata.misaki@ezweb.ne.jb _ _ > _ uh huh. well whatver just cmon already !!!

  
  


**_5: 27_ **

**_Are you sure you want to sign off?_ **

 

**_<_ ** **_fushimi.saruhiko@docomo.ne.jp_ ** **_> has signed off._ **

  
  


**~**

 

They’re sitting in Misaki’s room, waiting for the game console to load, when the question’s asked.

“What was your first kiss like?”

Saruhiko’s fingers, which were fiddling mindlessly with his game controller, freeze in place. Perhaps, he thinks, he should’ve chosen dare instead, if he'd known what exactly picking truth entailed.

He schools his features into an unimpressed look. “What are you, five?”

His friend's sprawled out on his belly beside him, feet kicking through the air. “N-No,” he says, the blush soaked into his cheeks darkening a shade, “I-I’m just curious! There’s nothin’ wrong with that!”

“I haven’t had one.”

“Huh?” Misaki sits up. “Haven’t had what?”

“A first kiss. I’ve never kissed anyone before.” He gives a half-hearted shrug, “Never had any interest.”

“Eh?” Misaki’s looking at him like he’s sprouted two heads, eyes round and full of surprise. “You must be kidding.”

“I’m not.” Saruhiko wishes he was far away from this conversation, this conversation that makes his heart beat oddly in his chest. He rather talk about their plans to topple the world or something.

Before Misaki can use that loud mouth of his and bruise his pride further, he says, “I’m assuming virgin Misaki’s never had a first kiss either, right?”

“O-Oi! Don’t just go assuming things, stupid, o-of course I’ve had a first kiss—” But his rosy red cheeks are a dead giveaway, and Saruhiko has to muffle a laugh behind his hand.

“Hey, you’re—” Misaki’s gaze is on him, on his hidden laughter, and his eyes look suspiciously bright. Saruhiko’s eyes narrow.

“What.”

“O-Oh, it’s nothing,” Misaki smiles. He goes quiet for a second, then murmurs, “Say, since we’ve never had a first kiss . . . Why don’t we, um, t-try it with each other?”

Surely, Saruhiko’s heart was bruising his rib-cage, it was beating so fast. He stares at a red red red Misaki, hoping there’s not a blush on his face to match.

“I—I mean,” he stutters, “only if you want to. J-Just to see what it’s like, y’know? Not ‘cause of, uh . . .” Misaki gives him a lost, desperate look. “You get what I mean, right? Right?”

Saruhiko nods, silent and serious and still staring at Misaki’s lips, wondering what they taste like. Wondering how they’d feel against his own.

“. . . Yeah.”

They’re clumsy about it: they don’t know how close they should be, they don’t know which way to angle their heads, they don’t know who’s supposed to move first, they don’t know how to kiss in general.

But Misaki’s lips brush the corner of his own eventually, and they’re chapped and dry and they taste like the pineapples he ate a half hour ago. Saruhiko doesn’t mind.

He doesn’t realize that’s he’s leaned closer, tilted his head further to meet Misaki’s lips. Their mouths move messily together, but that’s okay, because as they said, it’s their first kiss.

They can’t meet each other’s eyes without going pink in the face (at least Misaki can’t) a whole day after that.

  
  


**~**

  
  


It’s colder than the inside of a cooler when they head home to the flat they share. Raindrops plop on Saruhiko’s glasses, smearing his vision like translucent paint. Beside him, Misaki rides slowly on his skateboard, teeth chattering in the soaked and frosty air.

Somewhere behind them is the building they just left—Bar HOMRA, with its fire and flame and the “Red Monster.” It’s been a week since the marks were burned into their skin.

It’s been a week, and Saruhiko still can’t forget the way it felt like his flesh was burning.

He scratches idly at his mark and glances over to Misaki, who’s shaking like a leaf at this point. (Which is odd, really, because the power they recently acquired feels like a pit of fire in his stomach, licking at him from the inside out, and how Misaki can feel cold like that, he doesn’t know.)

“Cold,” he grits out, “it’s fucking  _ cold, _ Saru.”

“You should’ve remembered your raincoat, stupid.”

“I was thinking about other important stuff, okay?” Saruhiko cocks an eyebrow, clearly doubting him, and Misaki huffs at him. “I was! Like . . . Like Mikoto-san! Yeah, see?”

Saruhiko stiffens, though he doesn’t know why, exactly. “Yeah,” he agrees, albeit reluctantly.

“It’s just, isn’t he amazing? All of the HOMRA guys are, but Mikoto-san—I can already see myself really liking him, ya know? He’s just so cool and—”

His rushed, excited words are abruptly cut off when a jacket is thrown at him. Confused, Misaki rolls to a stop, looking down at the dark hoodie in his hands. “What—”

“You said you were cold,” mutters Saruhiko. He doesn’t mention that his timing was intentional. “If you don’t want it, just give it back.”

“Of course I don’t want it, I’m not a baby—” But then Misaki shivers again, scowls down at the hoodie, says something too low for the other teen to hear (something about the hoodie being warm, maybe) and slings it on. The sleeves, Saruhiko notices with amusement, envelop his hands whole.

“Just this once,” says Misaki. “Just ‘cause it’s fucking cold, got it?”

“Whatever you say.”

Silence dangles between them, save for the harsh rolling of Misaki’s wheels on pavement and Saruhiko’s footsteps, until: “. . . Truth or Dare?”

Startled, Saruhiko looks up—it’s been awhile since they've played this game; they’ve been too occupied with Jungle and HOMRA lately to do anything else. He tells himself he didn’t miss it.

“Truth,” says Saruhiko.

“What do we do now?”

It’s a stupid question, one that Saruhiko wastes his breath answering. It’s the same thing Misaki says every day, without fail.

“We’ll do amazing things, obviously.” He looks away. “That’s always been the plan, right?”

It's the right answer. His friend grins, “Yeah! You got that right, Saru! The world better be ready, ‘cause we’re gonna topple it!”

The walk home is pretty normal after that. Saruhiko releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

  
  


**~**

  
  


“I don’t understand why you would let your hair get this long, idiot. Can you even see through all this hair?”

Saruhiko parts another strand of reddish orange hair, situating his scissors around it.  _ Snip,  _ and the hairs drift to the ground, a few clinging to the towel wrapped around Misaki’s shoulders.

“Of course I can!” huffs Misaki. “You don’t even need to cut it, it’s  _ fine—” _

“Quit moving,” says Saruhiko, observing Misaki’s wriggling form with disapproval, “unless you want me to take out an eye.”

Misaki, temporarily mollified, goes still. Stubbornly, his arms fold over his chest. Saruhiko picks through Misaki’s mess of hair—only minutes before he’d been out skateboarding, and his hair was as wild as a bird’s nest because of it—and rubs a piece between his fingers.  _ Snip,  _ and the strand falls.

“You shouldn’t leave it this long,” he mutters. “Fighting with it like this is moronic.”

“But getting it cut like this is fucking embarrassing!” Misaki groans. “This is stupid. What would the guys think? They could just come in right now, y’know, and then—”

“. . . shut up.”

“—then I’d probably die of embarrassment and—Wait, what did you say?”

“I said,” Saruhiko’s voice is strung tight tight tight, “ _ shut up.” _

He does. Shocked into silence, Misaki’s shoulders bunch up, and if Saruhiko could see his eyes he's sure they’d be wide with hurt.

For a splinter of a second, Saruhiko doesn’t care. Misaki can be hurt all he wants to, that’s fine, Saruhiko wanted it that way. For some reason, it feels good—like it took some of the weight off his shoulders.

But it didn’t, it really didn’t, the weight might even feel heavier now, and Saruhiko feels his head give a painful pulse. He fingers through the windswept but soft hair in front of him. “. . . Sorry.”

_ Snip.  _ Misaki jumps, the towel almost slipping off his shoulders, and turns around to frown at him. It might even be a concerned frown, but Saruhiko doesn’t get his hopes up.

“. . . Saruhiko. Truth or Dare.”

The scissors go still in Saruhiko’s hand. He stares long and hard at the back of Misaki’s head, wonders how he landed himself a friend this stupid, and says, “Are you kidding me?”

“Just pick one.”

He clicks his tongue, but reluctantly gives in, “Truth.”

“Are you happy?”

_ Snip. _

Saruhiko doesn’t realize that he has moved the scissors, jerked them across Misaki’s scalp quick enough to draw blood, but he has. It's an accident, but that doesn't mean it hurts any less, and the redhead makes a pained hiss.

“Ow! What—” Misaki’s hand flies to his head. When he pulls it away, beads of blood dot his fingers. “Saru, what the hell!”

Eyes wide, Saruhiko looks down at the scissors dangling off his fingers, the tips of the blades tinged red. He tosses them to the floor.

His fingers, he notes dully, are trembling. He thrusts his hand into his jacket pocket. “I didn’t mean to.”

Misaki winces, palming the wound through his hair, and says, “You weren’t kidding, idiot Monkey. I mean, it’s not my eye, but close.”

Saruhiko’s eyes don’t leave his blood-matted hair. “It’s your fault for surprising me.”

Misaki scowls darkly at him, shakes the towel off his shoulders and stands up. Upon seeing Saruhiko’s expression, though, his own softens a tad (which must mean he looks pretty bad, because Misaki is never  _ soft,  _ not anymore). “Hey, don’t worry about it—already stopped bleeding, see?”

This isn’t what’s bothering him—at least, not all of it—but he nods anyway.

His eyes meet Misaki’s, big and bold and brown, and he feels the familiar little stir he always gets, looking into these eyes. They hold something precious in them, he knows—or rather, they used to, when things were different. But the more he looks at Misaki, the more it fades away, as if it was never there to begin with.

He swallows hard, and wonders what would happen if he were to destroy this precious thing himself, before it can be taken away from him like everything else was. He wonders how it would feel to destroy it with his own hand.

His hand is still shaking, but it won’t be for much longer.

 

**~**

  
  


“—Mikoto-san, Truth or Dare?”

It’s the first thing Saruhiko hears upon entering Bar HOMRA, and it makes him want to stride right back out, because it’s the last thing he wants to hear.

The majority of HOMRA’s regulars are here, it seems, grouped together in a vaguely circlish formation next to the bar stools. Misaki is leaning precariously on his bar stool, his skateboard clutched in his lap. His gaze is on Mikoto, who’s slouched on the stool beside him. And to Mikoto’s other side is Totsuka, and behind the bar is Kusanagi—but Saruhiko doesn’t care about any of that. He can’t, not when Misaki is staring at the king like that, waiting for him to answer a question he has no right to in the first place.

Kamamoto, standing off to the side of Misaki, jabs him in the side, “Fushimi’s here, Yata-san.”

“Huh?” Misaki pries his gaze off the man beside him and glances towards the door. “Oi, Saru! Where the hell have you been? Eh, it doesn’t matter now—wanna play some Truth or Dare? Get this, Mikoto-san’s never played before, can you believe that? I mean, who hasn’t played Truth or Dare?”

Misaki doesn’t wait for Saruhiko to answer. He spins back around to Mikoto, “So, Truth or Dare, Mikoto-san? You have to choose one.”

The expression Mikoto’s wearing clearly reads  _ this is stupid,  _ but Misaki doesn’t seem to notice. Behind Mikoto, Kusanagi leans his elbows onto the counter and chuckles, “Just humor him, King.”

Totsuka nods encouragingly, smiling that seemingly never-faltering smile of his, and Mikoto sighs. “Dare,” he says, because what else would a fearless king possibly pick.

Feet rooted to the floorboards, Saruhiko stares at the scene unfolding before him, unable to believe it. They had powers, actual powers, the ability to  _ be  _ something, and here they were, lazing about and playing a childish game.

Foolishly, he had thought he and Misaki were actually going to use these powers and do “amazing things.” He thought they’d destroy the rigid society they were trapped in, topple the world side by side.

He’d thought—and this was the most foolish one yet—that maybe after that, he’d turn and see Misaki’s sunny smile and he’d think, they once talked about crashing straight into the sun, but he didn’t really need to do that because his sun was right here. (He thought that he’d press his small smile to Misaki’s own, because he’d always wondered what sunshine tasted like.)

He thought wrong.

“Mikoto-san,” Misaki begins, “Mikoto-san, I dare you to—”

“. . . Stupid.”

He whispers it more to himself than anyone else, but he forgets to take into account Misaki’s good hearing. Misaki’s head pops up. “What was that?”

He clicks his tongue. “You heard me, Misaki. This. It’s stupid.”

They’ve attracted the attention of several clan members, now. Misaki doesn’t seem to care. He stands up, lips twisted into a scowl, “What the hell, Saruhiko? Why are you acting like this?” As an afterthought, he adds, “And don’t call me by that name!”

“I’m not the one who’s changed,” he says stiffly. “That’s you,  _ Misaki _ .”

He didn’t want to be here in the first place, really, so he has no problems with leaving. He slams the door on his way out.

He doesn’t like Truth or Dare much after that.

  
  


**~**

  
  


“. . . Hey. Saruhiko?”

Misaki’s voice is soft, hesitant—they’ve been fighting again, and Saruhiko knows Misaki doesn't want to break through the tension growing between them like thorns, lest he make it even worse.

Nestled in a thin blanket on his bunk, Saruhiko doesn’t answer. From the bed directly below his, he hears a frustrated growl.

“Don’t even pretend to be asleep, fucking Monkey, ‘cause I know you’re awake.”

Saruhiko wishes he could fall asleep. Sometimes, he wishes he could close his eyes and never wake up. But his mind feels too pressured, too weighted, as if there's constant fingers prying into his skull.

“Saruhiko.” The voice wavers for a heartbeat. “Truth or Dare.”

The words hover in the air, a ghost of what they used to be (it’s an attempt to fix something that’s already broken, he thinks, and it’s an attempt given far too late).

The black haired teen tugs his blanket up to his chin, pulls it over his ears to drown the world out.

“Truth or Dare,” repeats Misaki, more insistent now, “C’mon, I don’t care how mad you are, don’t just ignore me!”

It’s like the time they first used each other’s given names, he thinks. It was only fair that Saruhiko called Misaki by his first name if Misaki got to call Saruhiko by his.

It was only fair that Saruhiko ignored Misaki if Misaki got to ignore him, too.

“I just—I just want to know the truth, you bastard, can’t you at least give me that?”

_ You wouldn’t understand even if I told you. _

Saruhiko rolls onto his side and lets the silence swallow them both.

  
  


**~**

  
  


In the alleyway, Misaki watches him go.

He watches his back gets smaller and smaller, a smudge in the distance—and then he’s gone, leaving nothing behind but the faint smell of something burning.

_ "There goes your pride, Misaki.” _

Saruhiko’s gone.

It’s hard to believe, impossibly hard. Misaki almost expects Saruhiko to pop his head back around the corner, click his tongue and say, “Can’t believe you fell for that, Misaki, how gullible can you be?”

But no one appears in the alleyway, no one clicks their tongue at him, Misaki is alone.

His legs are wobbling. He slides down the wall, and the cement along his back is freezing; it cools down his red aura, which had snaked up along the walls like angry graffiti. He pulls his knees to his chest, stares into empty space as if he can find some answers there.

“Truth or Dare,” is what he finally whispers, stupidly enough, because it’s all he can pull from his sluggishly moving head. “. .  Truth or Dare, Saruhiko?”

The nothing that meets his ears is almost painful. “Fine,” he says, if only to shatter the silence, “you pick Truth.” Saruhiko did almost always pick Truth (ironically, though, since he rarely actually told it).

“Why?”

His heart feels like it’s going to beat the bones of his ribs into smithereens. “Why did you betray us? Why did you betray HOMRA?”

The silence, he thinks, has never bothered him as much as it does in this moment, because even if Saruhiko wasn’t talkative he still always replied in his own way, and now Misaki can’t even have that.

“Why,” the pressure in his lungs, the pressure in his eyes, it hurts it hurts  _ it hurts _ . It makes him feel weak and he hates it. “Why did you betray me?”

As expected, that goddamn silence is all he hears, and he decides that after beating the traitor into a pulp like he deserves, he’s going to buy himself a pair of headphones.

 

**~**

 

In the first week after Saruhiko leaves HOMRA for Scepter 4, he dreams.

In the dream, the world as he knows it is much smaller. It’s nothing special. It’s really nothing but a cramped internet cafe, one earphone in his ear, and Yata Misaki sitting across from him, arms slung around the back of his plastic chair.

“Saruhiko,” Misaki would say, with a big stupid smile, “Truth or Dare?”

It’s a game they’ve always played for no particular reason, mainly because it was something to do. It’s stupid, Saruhiko knows, and yet he still says, “It’s my turn, idiot,” because if they’re going to play this for the millionth time they might as well play it right.

“Aw, but—”

“No buts.” Saruhiko scowls. “I’m tired of being asked all the questions.”

“You could pick dare, ya know!”

“All your dares are stupid.”

“You only think that because of that time I dared you to eat all of your vegetables for once,” grumbles Misaki. “And that wasn’t even that bad of a dare . . .” At the other's glare, though, he surrenders, “Fine, fine! Truth!”

Satisfied, the black haired teen ponders for a moment. When his eyes catch on the maroon school uniform Misaki’s wearing, he finds the question he’s been seeking.

“When we’re out of school,” he tugs at his own uniform sleeve, the distaste for the attire clear in his voice. The standardized uniform, he felt, was constricting in more ways than one.  “What will you do?”

Misaki frowns. “Huh? Where’s that comin’ from, Saru? I mean, I’m not really sure what I wanna do, but whatever it is,” he looks up, eyes teeming with light, “I know I wanna be doing it with you.”

The answer is one that normally, Saruhiko would’ve brushed off, feigning irritation while his pulse stuttered just a little bit more. This time, though, he knows better—instead he just laughs.

“You know, Misaki,” the laughter rattles him down to the bones, picks him apart and lays him bare. “I always thought you were a terrible liar, but that was the one lie I never did catch.”

_ Or maybe I did. Maybe I did,  but I never wanted to believe it. _

The dream shatters. Saruhiko wakes up, sweat on his skin and tremors in his fingers.

He sits up in the Scepter 4 dorm room, looks blearily at his blue uniform hanging off the chair, and decides that maybe he should start staying up later, if it’ll keep the stupid dreams away.

  
  


**~**

  
  


When they fight, red against blue, they don’t have to think, and it’s a lot better that way.

Saruhiko wields the glowing saber in his hand expertly, confidently—the blue aura feels natural in his hands in a way that red never did, and it shows through his mocking smile.

“Misakiii,” he drawls, “you brute, how do you hope to keep up with me, lugging that bat around like that? You know I’m not some opponent you can just bash in the head and be done with, don't you?”

The red clansman scowls at him. The bat twirls on his fingers like a top, so fast it spins into a brown blur. “Because a giant ass sword is any better? At least  _ I _ can actually hit things with mine.”

“Ah, is that so . . . Mi~sa~kiii?”

Without warning, Saruhiko’s sword slashes forward and slices a cut along Misaki’s waist. A loud hiss of pain, and the vanguard stumbles back, fingers cradling the bleeding wound. “Dammit—!”

“What was that you said before, hm? Care to repeat it?” Misaki’s glaring daggers at him, eyes burning with anger, much to his satisfaction, “That’s what I thought.”

“You . . .” Misaki growls, his words jagged, “Just go die already, will ya! You’re annoying as hell!”

“Oh? Is that . . .” The word tastes like nostalgia on his tongue, for a moment, “a dare, Misaki?”

The word slices through Misaki’s skin more than the sword ever could; Saruhiko can tell by the widening of his eyes. His fists clench, “Saruhiko . . . you bastard, I’ll kill you myself!”

When Misaki lashes out at him, impulsive as always, he’s not thinking. Saruhiko isn’t either, flicking his knives into his fingers with a humorless grin on his lips.

It’s a lot better that way.

 

**~**

 

“Saruhiko.”

Yata Misaki is standing across from him, neither of them have weapons (if you don’t count Saruhiko’s hidden knives, that is), and they're not fighting. For the first time in years, they're thinking instead of fighting, fixing instead of destroying.

But the atmosphere still suffocates Saruhiko like a noose round his neck, and he would’ve preferred the fighting, really.

Misaki seems to feel it, too. As he struggles with something to say, his mouth thins into a grim line. He blurts out, so fast it's barely heard, “Truth or Dare?”

Saruhiko blinks. “. . . Are you stupid?”

“Just—Just answer the question, asshole.” He scratches at his neck, seemingly embarrassed, “I didn’t know how else to start it, alright? And it’s not like  _ you’re  _ saying anything—”

“Shut up,” says Saruhiko. When Misaki does, though not without a glare, he continues in a low voice, “Truth.”

He knows not to pick anything else. Even if there was the pretense of a choice, there wasn’t one. Not this time.

Misaki, caught off guard by him answering with so little complaint, widens his eyes. Then, with effort, those eyes look directly at Saruhiko, look in a way that glues him right to his spot.

“Why?”

There’s a world of questions in that one word, a world of questions that Saruhiko’s always seen swirling in Misaki’s eyes.  _ Why did you betray us? Why did you betray HOMRA? What happened? What did I do wrong? Why did you— _

He never thought he’d have to answer any of these questions, but it seems that now he’s been left no choice.

He scratches at his burnt mark, something that will probably have to be explained as well, and clicks his tongue.

Then, he talks, and he says things in a way that even a fool could understand.

 

**~**

  
  


On a sunny Tuesday afternoon, Misaki gives him three things: a bottled soda, a hesitant but hopeful smile, and a dare.

From overhead, the sun beams down on them without mercy; even the park bench they're perched on feels hot to the touch. So Saruhiko doesn't hesitate to take the glass bottle that’s thrown at him, twist the cap open and tip a sip down his throat, eager for the cold temperature it provides. He's also eager for the potential distraction, the distraction from the way Misaki's looking at him, the distraction from the dare he just voiced.

“Well?” says Misaki, impatient at the lack of response. “How about it?”

Saruhiko stares down into his bottle, at the bubbles fizzling on the surface of the drink. It’s better than looking Misaki in the eye and seeing the raw hope there. “How about what.”

“My dare!” Misaki takes a swig of his own drink, downing half of it in one gulp. “You’re not gonna say no, are you? We agreed we’d never say no to one, y’know, back when we—”

“We’re not kids anymore,” he shoots back. “The same rules don’t apply. And besides, who even said I’d play your silly game anymore?”

“But—But don’t you think playing it’ll help? You know, so we can catch up better and stuff?”

Annoyed, Saruhiko clicks his tongue, “. . . sounds like too much work.”

“But isn’t it worth it?” There’s a stubbornly determined edge to Misaki’s voice, one that chisels away at Saruhiko’s resolve like a finely sharpened blade. “Aren’t  _ we  _ worth it?”

Saruhiko's pulse wavers. He feels his hand press around the glass bottle painfully hard, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Oi, Monkey.” The second time around he isn’t any less surprised when Misaki says, “I dare you to move in with me again.”

“. . . I doubt you even have any money for rent.”

“I’ll get a job, no problem. I mean, after all, who  _ wouldn’t _ hire Yatagarasu?”

“Anyone with a little common sense, probably,” he replies, though Misaki doesn’t seem to hear him.

“So, I’m not hearin’ a no . . . Does that mean you’ll do it?” In the sunlight, Misaki’s eyes are melted flames of gold, flames that Saruhiko can’t bring himself to be wary of. He can’t pull his gaze away.

“. . . so annoying,” he finally says, “You’re annoying, Misaki.”

But there’s a small, amused smile on his face and they both know he’s given in. Lips curved into a grin of their own, Misaki’s excitement bubbles over, spills all over the clansman beside him. “I’m takin’ that as a yes! It is a yes, right?”

“Mi-sa-ki,” he drawls, “even a fool like you should be able to understand something this simple.” He dusts off his jeans and stands up. “And . . . there better be an air conditioner.”

When he leaves, he thinks he might be still smiling, but that’s something he’ll never admit.

  
  


**~**

  
  


“Misaki,” mumbles Saruhiko, sleepily, “Truth or Dare.”

They’re tangled together on the futon, lanky limbs askew. Misaki’s voice is muffled—Saruhiko had crushed the vanguard’s face into his chest to shut him up earlier, and he hadn’t bothered removing himself—when he says, “Dare.”

“Good,” he says, “then I dare you to wash the dishes.”

“H-Huh?!” Much to the other's irritation, Misaki shoots up, his head clipping Saruhiko’s chin in the process. “That’s not even a real dare, you bastard—you’re just too lazy to do ‘em yourself!”

“Possibly.”

“You fucking—” But Misaki cuts himself off, stares at Saruhiko, at his half-lidded eyes and mussed hair. Then he scowls, “You look like shit.”

Saruhiko cracks open an eyelid.

“Oi, don’t look at me like that,” says Misaki. He disentangles himself, and the loss of warmth is jarring. “But okay, I’ll do the dishes, it's fine. You just get some rest, alright?”

In response, Saruhiko simply closes his eyes. When he feels a warmth press against his lips, however, they fly open again.

Misaki has a dark blush on his face. He pulls away from Saruhiko’s lips, says sheepishly, “N-night, idiot."

The redhead practically runs to their flat’s tiny kitchen, and Saruhiko's about to taunt him for it if not for the exhaustion trickling in. He finds himself unable to do anything but shut his eyes again, and rest.

As he drifts, he listens to the water sloshing as Misaki scrubs the plates raw, and it calms him the same way seeing Saruhiko still stretched out on the futon calms Misaki.

They’re both afraid to look away from the other, and they both know it. They’re both afraid of each other, in a way, afraid of what the other might do when their back is turned.

But slowly, achingly slowly, their frayed threads are being sewed back together. With time, they won’t have to look for the other in fear that they might have left. They won’t have to look to know the other is right beside them.

They won’t have to, but Saruhiko always will anyway, because it’d be a waste to miss out on Misaki’s stupidly sunny smile.

**Author's Note:**

> This took longer to write than it probably should have, but it was still really fun, so. Hope you enjoy?
> 
> And a huge thanks to Not_So_Original for helping me out of my writer's block! You're the best ^^


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